To Kill the Duke Read Online Free PDF Page A

she made her way to his desk, he suddenly thought she would be perfect for the stacked chest that Howard Hughes craved. Not necessarily for any movie role, just for Hughes and
this
obsession of his. She sat down with her notebook and crossed her legs.
    “Get me Oscar Millard, and get a phone call to the head of Fox studios,” he barked.
    “That’s it?” she asked. “Why didn’t you just tell me that over the intercom?”
    “I like watching you walk in and walk out,” he shot back.
    She got up and walked out… very slowly.
    He got out his huge portfolio of actresses that not only had big boobs, but could act and bring in a full house. One of Howard Hughes’ vast research and development teams had compiled this productive treasure.
    “Can I get one on actors, Howard?” Dick had once asked his boss.
    “No,” replied a curt Hughes.
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t sleep with men,” Hughes replied matter-of-factly.
    He started flipping through the photos and then remembered that if Brando was signed, Marlon was going to want a huge say in whoever his co-star would be.
    This was the early fifties, and the big stars not only commanded top billing to go with their ticket-selling appeal, but also demanded a lot of influence regarding what went into the movie.
    “It’s a long ways from how I used to be a piece of meat,” he sighed, as he tossed the book to the side and picked up a manila folder that was stamped ‘urgent.’ It contained the bills that were due and he buzzed Miss Burchett to bring the folder down to the bookkeeping department so the bills would get paid.
    “Aren’t you going to write something on the bills?” she asked him.
    Dick Powell grabbed a red pen and scribbled over the word ‘urgent.’ He wrote in big letters: PAY THEM ALL and handed it back to Miss Burchett.
    “Should we?” she asked him.
    “Of course. Most of these bills are from the little guys. In the financing world according to Hughes, the little guys get paid first. The big banks last,” he said with a smile. “Where is Oscar?”
    “I left a message with his service,” she said as she exited his office.
    “Any word from Fox?” he asked.
    “I’m still on hold, Mr. Powell.”

    Ah yes… being on hold in Hollywood.
    Whether he was just starting out as an extra on a film, an established star, a mover and a shaker in the creation of the actor’s union or a big-shot producer, Dick Powell had been put on hold more times than he cared to remember. Even worse, now he found himself doing the same thing to others.
    “It’s a sign of success,” he said under his breath, trying to put a positive spin on a negative annoyance.
    “Miss Burchett, transfer the Fox call to my line and find Oscar,” he said as he again picked up the dossier of women stars and started leafing through it while he stayed on hold. He was looking for an actress that he thought Brando would approve of, as well as having big enough boobs to appease his boss.
    Shit,
he thought. “There is no way Oscar is going to accept a woman with big boobs as the female star. He is into authenticity and Tartar women were not exactly big-breasted. This is one area where Howard would refuse to be authentic. But then again, Oscar is the writer, and in Hollywood writers come last,” Powell said out loud, glad he wasn’t a writer, but envious of the way they made everything come to life.
    Thinking about writers made Dick Powell feel melancholy. It wasn’t because most of Hollywood wiped their feet on the men and women who wrote screen plays — after all, the writer wasn’t perceived by the fans or the media that covered Hollywood as sexy enough. Sure, some writerswere indeed sexy enough, but that was because of their literary success
before
they came to Hollywood. And, how many of those people made it as screenwriters? Not many. And ironically, how many screen writers made it as authors of “literary” works? Again, not many. Writing was tough, but readers were fickle.